At the time of our conversation aboard the Underground, I thought Holmes was playing the dilettante once again, diverting its serious course towards the trivial. I was to learn differently, when we made the personal acquaintance of the greatest tenor of his or any other generation.
I confess I am no fan of Grand Opera. When I prize myself into a stiff shirt and cummerbund, wedge a tile onto my head, and distribute gratuities from the overdressed doorman down to the fellow who directs me to my seat—which is clearly numbered and easily claimed without help—I’d sooner anticipate an audience with the king than suffer through hour upon hour of human hippopotami singing at the top of their lungs with a rapier transfixing their livers; but that may be the medical specialist in me, obstructing the necessary suspension of disbelief. It was worth all the bother to see Holmes in complete repose, dreamily weaving his slender fingers with the music as if he could feel the very notes with the tips. Apart from his hellish decades-long flirtation with the demon cocaine—relegated, I prayed, to the dead past—I never saw him so completely offered up on the altar of bliss.
The star player, I must admit, was superb. Even my limited knowledge of Italian could not obstruct the pathos of his clown who laughed outwardly while grieving inside. His tenor was as clear and clean as a silver bell ringing on a cloudless dawn. I say without shame that I cried during his aria, which brought to the surface all the pain I’d sought to inter with my dear wife Mary.
Holmes affected not to notice; and when we joined the house in rising to our feet at the curtain call, he leaned close and whispered in my ear: “The great man has agreed to meet us in his dressing-room. I spared his favourite prompter from a prison sentence in a matter too trivial to recount, and he hasn’t forgotten the favor. When you’ve performed the same role a hundred times, it’s useful to have a fellow who will prevent you from jumping from Act One to Act Three because some fool of a librettist repeated a cue. Surely you know the danger, Watson; most often it’s the experienced swimmer who drowns, and the celebrated surgeon who stitches an overlooked pair of forceps inside an appendectomy patient. Familiarity breeds carelessness, if not precisely contempt.”
I made no remark, even to question the invitation. My friend, who had refused an audience with an emperor, was scarcely the type to meet with an entertainer, even one he admired. How often had I heard him say, “The gifted are invariably disappointing upon acquaintance. They leave everything on the canvas, the stage, and the leaf. Why shatter the illusion by learning they perspire and belch like the rest of us?”
Working our way through the maestro’s admirers reminded me of Afghanistan, and the press of bodies in retreat from the field of disaster, where my patients awaited aid. In this case, they were all in full charge; dowagers, stage-door Johnnies, critics from the provinces, and that class of female that attaches itself like a pilot fish to the latest and shiniest of shark and dolphin, pressed together in a humid horde. I was all for giving the thing up when the man at the door, a hulking presence in a suit of clothes that could have been made only to his measure—and that staked out as for a tent—broke into a wreath of smiles at sight of my companion.
“Mister Holmes! I heard you was killed.”
“They were right every time,” said my friend. “Is Himself in a position to receive visitors?”
“If he ain’t, he can go looking for another’n to look after his best interests. I’ll be with you directly.”
Contemplating this freshly closed door, I said, “Is there anyone in this city you don’t know?”
“None of social consequence, I must own. The gentry have bred themselves out of everything useful to my practice.”
Presently the fellow opened the door. “He will see you for five minutes.”
“Tell him he’ll see me for as long as it takes or not at all.”
The big man smiled. “I told him you’d say something like that.” He swung the door all the way and stepped aside.
“Greasepaint!” said Holmes, breathing in the atmosphere. “Hold your breath, Watson, I implore you. It’s a thousand times worse than lotus.”
He hadn’t exaggerated; although there was nothing in that heavy air to make me trade my stethoscope for a cap and bells. It was larded with turpentine, perspiration, and that combination of terror and exhilaration that accompanied every theatrical endeavour since Aristophanes. My friend, consummate amateur player that he was, was more affected. I’d always held that the theatre lost a Booth when criminal science gained a Holmes.
We followed the doorman through a narrow aromatic hall to a door upon which hung a gold-painted star. One rap, and we were in the presence of a short barrel of a man, wearing a paper bib over his white clown’s tunic, scrubbing the makeup off his face with cold cream. Seated before a three-sided mirror, he was shorter than he’d appeared on stage, and a good deal fatter; but I was heartened to note that his speaking voice was as cultured as the one with which he sang on stage; indeed, every phrase fell as if it had been written by a composer and delivered for the benefit of the last row.
“Mamma mia! I have a stone in my stomach! Is there not a chef in England who can make a decent lasagna?”
“There is an excellent one in Deptford,” said Holmes. “His establishment seats only five, and reservations must be made months in advance, but I’ve a hunch he’ll make an exception in your case, if you’ll pose with him for a photograph.”
“Leave the name with Bruno at the door. You are the detective, yes?” He was watching our reflections in the mirror.
“And you are Enrico Caruso, the greatest singer in the world.”
“Sí.”
“Take note, Watson. As you know, I regard false modesty as no better than an idle boast. I am here, signor, to discuss your experience with Il Mano Negro.”
The tenor stopped his movements abruptly. The bare spots on his face were nearly as white as the makeup that remained. “Dio mio,” he whispered, crossing himself. “Do not say that name so loud. I have paid them in Rome, in Naples, in Paris, and in New York City. I thought perhaps here I would be safe.”
“Have they approached you in London?”
“Yes.”
“What are the terms?”
“The amount varies; in New York it was nearly twice as much as in Rome, which was the highest. If I fail to pay—Splash! Acid in my face. These devils, they know one’s greatest weakness. The face, it is the mask through which the notes are pushed. It would be the same as if my throat were slit.”
“Have you been to the authorities?”
“I was warned against it. But what purpose would it serve? The police cannot be with me every hour of every day. Even were such a thing possible, it takes but a second to carry out the threat and flee. No one can be prepared for that. So I pay.” He resumed sponging his face. “I wasn’t aware that my predicament had been published.”
“Nor am I, but very little of a criminal nature takes place anywhere without coming to my attention. I’ve come to you, signor, for any details you may provide.”
“I’m at sea, Holmes,” said I. “I thought we came to discuss the Mafia. What is Il Mano Negro?”
“Forgive me, Watson. Like many major concerns, the society has several branches. The one that specializes in extortion translates as the Black Hand.”